Told in gallant deeds

by Marie Belloc Lowndes

Many of these young fellows were just fresh from their Universities, and had no previous military experience, but they showed remarkable dash and bravery while travelling on motor-cycles through a country infested with enemies.

Many and thrilling were their adventures. On one occasion an Australian from Cambridge, while speeding along a country road, suddenly came upon a party of fourteen German cavalrymen. With characteristic audacity he drew his revolver and shot down an officer and one man, whereupon the others ran away. Thus the Australian was able to deliver his despatch, which informed a corps commander that Germans were in the neighbourhood, and so prevented what might have been a disagreeable surprise.

The spy service, or, as they prefer to call it, the Secret Intelligence Department, has always been very cleverly conducted by the German War Office. Of the many devices resorted to by the enemy to convey secret information to those whom it concerned, the most curious and original was that known as the sign of the Black Cow.

All over the area of war the French and British troops were much surprised and mystified by seeing rough sketches of a black cow on walls and the sides of houses, even on gates and fences. Sometimes it was a small cow, sometimes a large cow; sometimes the cow was standing, sometimes she was lying down.

At last a French officer, cleverer or blessed with more imagination than his fellows, suddenly “tumbled to” the explanation. The small cow meant that the road in front was weakly defended. The large cow conveyed the warning that the enemy were strongly entrenched near by. Always the direction in which the head pointed told where the enemy lay. Only when the head was tossed back, and the horns were long and pointed, did it indicate to the enemy that an aeroplane reconnaissance would be valuable over there.

I think one of the stories of plain-man valour which impressed me most was that of a young telegraphist at Lille. He managed to move his instruments into the cellar of the house next to the Post Office. He then went and installed himself there; and for three weeks, helped by a few faithful friends who managed to give him food and water at certain long intervals, he conveyed valuable information to the Allied forces.

Now one of the most extraordinary features of this war has been the way in which towns and villages, aye, and even houses, have been taken and retaken alternately by friends and enemies. When the French had a temporary success the young telegraphist did not come out, as most people would have done; he remained where he was, knowing how probable was the presence of spies. Thus, when Lille was once more in German occupation, he was able to go on with his valuable help to the Allies.

A good many of us just now are anxious about some prisoner of war, and it is curious how few people know the pains, penalties, and privileges to which the prisoner of war is doomed or entitled. To begin with, the person of a prisoner of war is sacred, and on the whole he is well treated. Thus his captors have not the right to ask him for information which would do harm to his own side. He can, however, be forced to work for his captors. The Germans are said to make their prisoners work at digging trenches and making earthworks, which is not fair, for of course such defences are intended to be used against the prisoner’s own side. If a prisoner of war gives his word not to escape he is often allowed much more liberty, but, as a rule, British and French officers refuse to give any such promise. Should one of them escape, he may be fired at, but if he is retaken he may not be punished for having tried to escape.

In this war, Britain has treated her prisoners in a very generous and humane fashion. Those among them who are wounded were actually visited by our King and Queen, who spoke to them kindly in their own language, and gave orders that their comfort should be studied.

Immediately after what I have called the Battle of the Dykes, came one of the fiercest struggles of the war, that which centred round the curiously-named town of Ypres. This quaint, beautiful, old town was once, strange to say, besieged by an English Churchman, Henry Spencer, Bishop of Norwich. He failed to take Ypres because of the stout resistance offered to his soldiers by a hedge of thorn-bushes! This hedge grew on the ramparts, and proved a very real defence. In memory of their preservation the people of Ypres hold a fair every August, and in the Cathedral is a fine painting called “Our Lady of the Garden,” to show that the aid of Heaven as well as of the thorns had been invoked.